


How to Disappear Completely

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Invisibility, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Neal becomes more and more mainstreamed into the WC unit, he fears he is losing himself. Literally.</p><p>Originally published on my LJ; set sometime in S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Disappear Completely

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a song by Radiohead.

Neal didn’t know when he began to lose track of himself, he just did.

It was a gradual thing, really. The first time he noticed he was wearing thin, he had been going through a stack of files in his apartment, looking for the next case to bring to Peter for the team to tackle. It was a bright Saturday morning and he had just settled down at the table with his second cup of coffee when his cell rang. “Hey, Moz,” he answered, shouldering the phone and paging through a mortgage fraud file. He discarded it as too boring and picked up another.

“What are you doing today? There’s a Stieglitz exhibit at the Guggenheim.”

“Pass. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yeah, just wanted to get caught up on some stuff from the office.”

“I’m sorry, is Neal in?” Moz replied mockingly.

“Don’t be like that. Come on, we can go next week. We’ll meet for drinks later, OK?” He hung up, placed the file on the “possibilities” pile, and decided to jump in the shower. As he brushed his teeth, he glanced into the mirror and swore he could see the image of himself flicker and fade.  
  
He peered closely at the mirror, could just discern the reflection of the towel bar behind him reflected in the mirror. He turned to look at it; its reflection should’ve been blocked by his body. When he looked back in the mirror, all was normal. He glanced up towards the ceiling and shook his head – it was probably a trick of the sun shining through the skylight, bouncing off his eye at an oblique angle. He shook his head and went about his morning routine.

\----

The next time it happened, he and Peter were spending a quiet evening at Chez Burke. Elizabeth was out of town yet again and Neal was nursing a head cold. He was dozing off on the couch, a glass of red wine untouched at his elbow, when he felt a hand snake into his hair and Peter leaned in for a kiss. The kiss was hot, passionate, with just the right amount of pressure and tongue, exactly how Neal liked it, and he was completely not interested. He pulled away. “Can we not, tonight? My head is throbbing and I can’t shake this sore throat. I just don’t feel sexy.”

Peter looked hurt, sat back on the couch and pouted. But he pulled Neal against him a minute later, nestled his head against his chest and stroked his back. “Does that make it better?”

“Maybe,” Neal said, trying to relax. He pressed his upper torso against Peter for the comfort of the close contact. Peter misunderstood the gesture, and his hand found its way to Neal’s crotch, started rubbing gently but firmly, trying to get Neal in the mood. Normally, it would’ve worked, but again, Neal was feeling exhausted and sniffly, the complete opposite of turned on. “Peter, can’t we just, I don’t know, _be_ tonight?”

“You know it turns me on when you’re all clingy,” Peter chided. His tone of voice said he was kidding, but Neal knew what he meant, what he wanted.

“Fine,” Neal sighed and removed his glasses. He knew exactly how to get Peter off and, more importantly, off his back, most efficiently. He slid off the couch, getting on his knees to face Peter. He grabbed him by his hips, pulled him forward so that he was half lying, half leaning against the back of the couch. Next he undid Peter’s jeans, shimmied them down his legs until they pooled around his ankles. He did the same with Peter’s boxers.

Peter’s cock was already hard, bouncing as Neal freed it. He looked up at Peter through his lashes, saw him bite his lip. “Neal,” he whispered, and grinned like a kid, reaching for him. Neal took both his hands and placed them on the couch at Peter’s sides and sighed again. If he kept the touching to a minimum, he knew it would take less time.

He leaned forward, laved the sides of Peter’s cock with his tongue, and took the head of Peter’s cock in his mouth and sucked, lightly at first and then with more pressure, more movement of his head. “Oh, God!” Peter exclaimed, surprised, hands flailing again, and again Neal pushed them down at his sides.  Peter’s hips began to twitch involuntarily and Neal knew he was close. He increased the suction on the head of Peter’s cock and, at just the right moment, stuck his middle finger in Peter’s ass to the first knuckle and squeezed his balls with the palm of the same hand. Peter screamed as he came, bucking beneath Neal until he was spent, sweat glistening on his forehead, pupils blown wide, unable to speak.

Neal stood, straightened his sweater and retrieved his glasses. He glanced at the clock on the DVR and noted that five minutes had elapsed. “You good?” he asked Peter, trying to put inflection and feeling into his tone that he didn’t feel. Peter nodded weakly and Neal managed a real smile for him – he _was_ adorable after all.

“I’m going to bed.”

Neal made his way up the stairs, took some Nyquil and climbed into bed. A short time later, Peter joined him, fresh and clean from a shower, and spooned him from behind, nuzzling into him and planting tiny kisses up and down the back of Neal’s neck. “Love you,” Peter murmured sleepily and sighed.

Neal, skin itchy and jumpy from the fever he suspected he had, wished he felt more charitable as he gave Peter their usual response of, “Mean it.”  
  
As he willed sleep to come, he stared at his own hands grasping the broad forearms that held him close and thought he saw them fading. Startled, he held his hands before his face and they flickered back to substantiality, then to translucence. The physical sensation was odd – a combination of coldness and the worst pins and needles he’d ever experienced.

His heart racing, he clasped his hands to his chest, his stomach, his face, trying to make sure he was all there. Peter shifted against him, murmured something incomprehensible and pulled him tighter against his chest. With an almost painful suddenness, Neal could feel the sense returning to his limbs, his skin, and he was there again, safe again. He began to tremble, rousing Peter. “What is it?”

“I guess I’m sicker than I thought,” Neal hedged, the shaking increasing. Peter pulled him in closer, threw his leg over Neal’s and said, “I’ll keep you warm.” Neal relaxed against Peter and willed himself to calm down. It was a while before he fell asleep.

\----

His “condition” as Neal referred to it in his mind, came and went unpredictably over the next several weeks, so much so he took to wearing long sleeves all the time, and makeup to even out his skin tone. Some mornings, he could barely discern his own reflection in the mirror well enough to shave.

It was always worse at the office, where the fact that Peter was stuck in seemingly endless management and budget meetings meant he had little to do other than compose reports on cold cases. It was dull and tedious work, and Diana seemed to get a perverse pleasure out of piling the files on the edge of his desk. Working on them, his mind tended to wander, and it was then that his condition really flared up.

One afternoon, he sat at his desk and realized the pile in his in-basket had not gone down measurably in several days, despite a growing pile in the out-basket. He felt an almost hopeless frustration with the situation – the team hadn’t been called up for an interesting case in weeks and he could feel the tracking anklet weighing heavily on his foot. He glanced down at the thing on his left leg and sighed, felt his vision go a bit white around the edges and the now-familiar tingling in his extremities that signaled an attack. He glanced around nervously – at least no one was looking in his direction. He clutched the edge of his desk and rode it out.

\----

From up in his office, Peter had a complete view of the bullpen, and from time to time he felt a certain sense of pride as he looked out over his team, that well-oiled machine he’d spent years building with his own hands. Through a combination of dedication, hard work and sheer intelligence, they had all earned a highly respected status not only in the New York field office, but in Washington as well. Peter was often asked to lend out his team to other departments, and he knew that his people were constantly bombarded with offers, and it was a point of pride that all of them chose to stay.

And none of them made him prouder than Neal. He was the best and brightest of the lot, despite his lack of actual training, or maybe because of it. Peter thought Neal provided just the right catalyst for his team’s success, with his conman’s perspective and sense of fun, and he didn’t just think that because he and his wife were head over heels in love with the young man.

Peter rested his gaze on Neal at his desk, and his proud smile faded as he saw something odd. Neal sat clutching at his desk, head bowed as if he was in pain. Peter could see the tension in his back from here, his eyes screwed shut and, oddest of all, his face and hands seemed to _flicker_.  Peter blinked, took a step closer. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. But there it was again, a barely perceptible fading of Neal’s features, so that Peter swore he could _see through him_. He crossed to the railing and called out, “Neal!”

Neal looked up at Peter, a shocked look on his face as if he had been caught at something, which he quickly masked with a neutral expression. Peter noticed he appeared more substantial now. “Yes, Peter?” he said, his voice a little strained.

“Can you come to my office please?”

Peter kept his eyes on Neal as he rose from his desk, grabbed a notebook and pen and headed up the steps. He kept his expression mild, met Peter’s eyes as he reached the landing. Peter gestured for him to precede him into the office and Peter closed the door behind them. “Are you OK, Neal?” he asked, voice tinged with concern.

“Of course, why do you ask?” Neal said, smiling mask in place. Peter knew him well enough to spot the lie immediately.

“Are you sure? You look a little pale around the gills.”

“I’ve been getting over that cold, you know. Guess I haven’t been taking my Vitamin C,” Neal said jauntily.

Peter didn’t believe him and his expression reflected that. He took a step closer, putting himself in Neal’s personal space just a bit, craving the closeness, even in the office. He put his hand on Neal’s upper arm and squeezed. “We haven’t seen you in a week. El misses you.”

“ _El_ misses me?”

“Me too. Seriously, is something wrong?”

“I’m fine, Peter,” Neal said, more snappish than he’d meant to, and sat down in one of Peter’s guest chairs. “Now, do we have a case to discuss, or is this interrogation over?”

Peter held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, babe.”

“Please don’t call me that in the office,” Neal said quietly.

Peter couldn’t mask the hurt in his eyes. He nodded his head once and then took his seat, flicked his laptop open.

In the moment Peter’s attention was off him, Neal closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, which didn’t escape Peter’s notice, but he ignored it. “So, let’s go over these cold cases Diana’s got you working,” he began.

\----

The next day was a Saturday, and as was becoming a more frequent occurrence, Neal woke up alone in his bed. He felt tired, like he hadn’t just slept 10 hours. He dragged himself to the kitchenette and put the coffee on, then crossed over to his table where more of the FBI’s latest attempt to bore him into submission – a stack of about a dozen case files – awaited him. With a heavy sigh, he turned his back on them and leaned against the edge of the table.

And promptly _fell through it_ , as he suddenly found himself completely without substance. He landed hard on his ass on the floor beneath the table, his sleep pants lay in a pile on the floor in front of him. He looked down and he was no longer there. He panicked, flailing around, drawing his arms and legs to himself. He crawled out from under the table (and _through the goddamn chairs_ , he noted) and lay on his side, trying not to hyperventilate. Once he was calmer, he could feel himself resolving. He looked down and could just make out his arms and chest. He stood and snatched his cell from the table with shaking hands, scrolled until he located Peter’s number and hit “call.”

\----

Peter lay dozing in his bed. It was already past 7:00 am and he was trying to stave off the guilt of being a lazy slug when there were leaves to rake and a dog to take to the groomer’s. His cell buzzed at him as he was contemplating turning over onto his side to go back under, making the decision to wake for him. The display read, _Neal Cell_. He picked it up immediately. “Hey,” he greeted warmly, hoping to ease the tension he had felt between them the previous afternoon.

“Peter?” Neal’s voice sounded faint, as if he were speaking from across a field.

“Neal? I can barely hear you, buddy. Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Can you come? I need help.”

Peter sat bolt upright in his bed when he heard Neal’s voice. He was panicked, afraid. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Please hurry,” Neal begged and then there was a banging sound as if the phone had been dropped.

“Neal? You still there? Neal?” Peter tried but couldn’t raise Neal again. He hung up and hit redial several times and got no answer. He dressed quickly and headed down the stairs.

\----

When Peter arrived at Neal’s, at first he thought he’d walked into an empty apartment. But then he saw him, sitting naked on the bed with his legs pulled into his chest, rocking back and forth. His blue eyes were wide with fear, and Peter soon realized why. Neal was basically transparent, his features flickering on and off like a faulty light bulb. “Jesus, Neal,” Peter breathed, sitting on the edge of the bed, mouth agape. “What’s happening to you?”

“I seem to be disappearing,” Neal answered, his voice flat, emotionless. Peter inched closer on the bed, reached out his arms to try to hold him, comfort him. But when he touched him, Neal’s body seemed taut, with a strange and flimsy elasticity, like a balloon at the end of the party. Peter snatched his hand back, afraid to hurt him.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought I saw you flicker yesterday. How long has this been happening, Neal?”

“A few weeks I guess. I hardly remember. This morning it got worse. I think I completely went away for a minute.”

“We’ve got to _do something_ ,” Peter repeated, frantic. He took both Neal’s hands in his and held them. At his touch, Neal seemed to become a bit more solid. Their eyes met. “Please stay with me, Neal,” Peter whispered.

“I want to.” They sat holding hands for a full five minutes, and eventually it seemed like Neal was much more solid than when Peter had arrived. He had to help Neal put on some pajamas, since his flickering hands made it difficult to grasp things. And then something dawned on Neal. “We need to call Moz.”

“Do you think he’ll know what to do?”

“With all the herbalists and acupuncturists he knows in Chinatown? Probably. Can you call him?”

\----

Ninety minutes later, Moz swept into the apartment escorting a petite Asian woman in her 50’s, and carrying a large sample case. He stopped in his tracks as he saw Neal, eyes wide. “I knew this would happen,” he said accusingly, glaring at Peter.

“You knew I would mystically begin to disappear?” Neal asked, incredulous.

“Well, no, but something like it. The Man has completely taken over your life Neal. Is it any shock to you that you seem to have lost yourself entirely? Literally?”

“Thanks for the armchair analysis, Dr. Freud,” Neal replied, annoyed.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” commented the woman. They all turned to face her and she smiled. “I’m Dr. Audra Wang. I am a licensed psychiatrist, as well as an herbalist. I believe I know what is wrong here, and more importantly, it’s something that is treatable. Can I have some time alone with the patient?”

Peter and Moz left the apartment in search of some coffee in June’s kitchen, and Audra pulled a chair over to sit across from Neal. “Tell me what’s the matter, Neal,” she said, a kind smile on her face. She took his right hand in both of hers and rubbed it soothingly as he spoke, turned it palm up and began to rub at his pressure points with her thumbs.

“I guess I have been gradually disappearing for about six weeks now,” he began, and described his experiences to her in detail. Neal liked her gentle yet matter-of-fact manner, and soon he was telling her his personal history – his job with the FBI, his past as a conman, his relationship with Peter and El – everything. She listened carefully and attentively, all the while massaging his right hand, and then his left, until he found he had regained the feeling in his arms and legs.

“So what’s wrong with me?” he asked guilelessly when he was finally done.

She rose from her seat and put the kettle on the stove, retrieved her case and began to mix a bunch of herbs in a teapot. She spoke as she worked, “Etheric projection. Think of it as the opposite of astral projection, Neal. Your consciousness is separating from your body as a means of protecting itself. Only, instead of leaving your corporeal body behind as it goes on its journey, it is destroying it.”

“That’s a little hard to believe.”

“And yet…” she smiled spreading her hands in a voila-type gesture. “It is a very self-destructive behavior, but it’s rooted in a very real problem. You feel, consciously or subconsciously, that you have lost your sense of self, your identity, and we need you to deal with why you feel that way. But it’s 100% fixable. _You’re_ fixable, Neal.” She poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him. “Drink this. It’s got St. John’s Wort, some white willow bark and other herbs. It will make you feel better.”

Neal tasted it and made a face. “Sugar?” she offered with a smile. “That stuff tastes pretty ghastly.”

\----

Before she left, Audra took Peter aside and gave her instructions. “We’ve scheduled some therapy sessions. I think he’ll be back to normal fairly soon once we get him to talk out his frustration and anger about his situation. But in the meantime, he can’t be left alone for long. A relapse is likeliest over the next couple of weeks.”

“Understood,” Peter said, shaking her hand a little too urgently, his voice shakier than he wished. “Thank you, Doctor.”

She squeezed his arm reassuringly before leaving with Moz. “He’ll be OK, Mr. Burke. You’ll all be OK. I promise.”

\----

Later that afternoon, Neal emerged from the shower to find that Elizabeth had arrived with several bags from Zabar’s and a suitcase. “Sleepover?” she suggested, grinning. She crossed over to him and melted into his arms. She snaked her own arms around his waist and clutched him to her as if in desperation. “I don’t want to let go,” she finally whispered.

Neal felt a warmth in his body he hadn’t felt – or allowed himself to feel – in weeks, and he pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I let it get too far. I should’ve said something.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby, _just be_ ,” she said and he thought truer words were never spoken.

\----  
 A/N: I totally made up "Etheric projection," so don't go googling it or anything   


Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a sequel: That There, That's Not Me


End file.
